


Monument to Victory or Fury

by Outis_of_the_Cave



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: 19th Century, Angst, Animal Death, Cold Weather, Crack, Dark Blanky, Desperation, Feral Behavior, Fury Beach, M/M, Madness, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Canon, Victorian Attitudes, a whole bunch of unwholesome things, graphic depictions of whaling, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-09 17:36:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19891711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Outis_of_the_Cave/pseuds/Outis_of_the_Cave
Summary: And once it's past all hope, the mind goes unnatural with thoughts.





	Monument to Victory or Fury

_ Do for heaven’s sake spring. The boat don’t move. You’re all asleep; see, see! There she lies; skote, skote! I love you, my dear fellows, yes, yes, I do; I’ll do anything for you. I’ll give you my heart’s blood to drink; only take me up to this whale only this time, for this once, pull. _

***

A man has plenty of time to think when he finds himself alone in the dark, and Thomas Blanky does not put the opportunity to waste on the bleak shores of Fury Beach. 

He is standing next to Chimham Thomas’s grave—Mr. Thomas, the carpenter, and scurvy’s latest victim. Blanky remembers the funeral service: men standing arranged on the imaginary deck of the very imaginary  _ Victory  _ while Captain John Ross said a few pithy words over a coffin the carpenter had made earlier with his own hands. No tears were shed for they had none left. It was the actual burial came that they were tempted to cry. Only half of them were still able to do physical labor, and of that half many of them had lost toes and fingers over the winter due to frostbite, and all that time spent man-hauling the boats did little to help either. The ground beneath the snow was a solid layer of frozen gravel. They attacked the bare ground with pickaxes and spades and a few leftover marlinspikes, and no sooner had they made some shallow progress did the falling snow cover up and choke the grave, so they’d have to uncover it again and by then the fresh gravel would be all frozen stiff and harder to excavate, just like the topsoil had been. Eventually, they were forced to make a compromise. They removed the carpenter from his box, wrapped him canvas, the bottom and top of which were tied off at the ends so the filled burial shroud resembled a grand rolled-up cigarette, and placed him, reverently of course, in his shallow grave that could fit no more. They sifted the loose soil over him and, attempting to mitigate their failure, they topped it all off with a loose cairn of stones. ‘To dissuade any animals’, they said aloud, as if their were any in this godforsaken place that would try to have a go at the corpse. Ross wasn't around to see the struggle, an absence keenly felt by all. This, Blanky figured, was when the dreadful pall fell over him himself. 

A malignancy staining his lungs and simmering in his blood, more subtle than the physical symptoms ravaging his body but holding so much promise—that’s the nature of what is haunting him. What troubles him the most is that it's not entirely unfamiliar. He'd gotten his start as a young lad sailing on various whaling ships hunting the shoals throughout the South Seas and East Indies. Crewfulls of men cruising for a kill, knowing the sooner they filled the hold with whale oil, the sooner they could go home, but that did not stop voyages from stretching on to three whole years. And in all that time a man inevitably turns to introspection and always comes to the same conclusion:  _ it is better to be anywhere than here _ . Alone under a leaden sky, staring out over an endless expanse of jagged ice that groans and moans like a horde of invalids, those words have taken on a new poignancy, and he realizes that his circumstances haven't changed all that much, not as he would've preferred them to. His throat is sore and it's not from the cold. The pall wraps itself more firmly around him, tighter than the canvas around poor Mr. Thomas. 

The dual purpose of  _ cutting-in _ and  _ trying-out  _ is to separate the blubber from the flesh, to process the oil from blubber, and its unintended one is sorting out who is new to the trade and who is a veteran. After harpooning the great Leviathan, then letting it exhaust itself before finishing it off with lances wielded by unworthy hands, the whalers bend their backs and grit their teeth rowing their kill back to the ship which can be anywhere between one or six miles away. Upon their return, while their joints still ached and muscles spasmed, they waste no time preparing for the real work that lay ahead. The carcass is fitted to the starboard side of the ship with a chain around its grey flukes—head to stern, flukes to bow—and then a mate cuts a section of flesh away between the unmoving eye and fin. Right after this, a brave soul boards the corpse and fixes a hook to this raw section, and the mighty Leviathan, having lost none of its majesty in death, is, in a breathtaking moment, hoisted up to the rigging with block and tackle, and, with generous help from the attached hook, gravity and fate conspire to peel the whale like an orange. Sharks are lapping against the very hull of the ship; carrion birds circle the mainmast, but all eyes are on the  _ blanket-piece _ —the thick strip of blubber prised from the whale and lowered to the deck, to a gallery of sharpened knives and gleaming copper cauldrons. Cutting-in complete, now to try things out. The strip is cut into manageable pieces of blubber and boiled in the pots. This is where the hunt reaches its bloody denouement; and just as the blubber is processed, the men are processed also. The greenhorns vomit over the sides; their clothes are drenched in blood, oil, and other unnameable fluids and they make the mistake of changing their clothes and ruining everything they had brought to wear in their seachests, so they make the classic mistake of buying new clothes from the slop chest which are sold at outrageous prices by the purser, and the expenses are deducted from their already meagre pay. They choke on the black fumes issuing forth from the cauldrons and congregate on the lee side of the vessel, but it’s too late: they are drenched from head to toe in cloying oil and the smell won’t go away, nor the taste. If it’s a big catch, like a large sperm whale, this nightmare can go on for days, the men working six or more hour shifts without pause. 

The butchery is observed throughout the tropical night. Black fins slice through the glittering red waters around the ship, cast by the glow of the fires heating the bubbling cauldrons on deck. Undulating plumes of smoke, thicker and fouler than any that had ever escaped a chimney in London, rise past the furled sails and become one with the dark sky. The cooper, his face the same color and texture as his calloused palms, oversees the casking of the gallons of oil. The stripped whale is eventually decapitated and the left on the deck, looking in all the world like the statue of a primordial beast in the lurid light, and a hole is made in its skull. Inside the cranium lies the valuable  _ spermaceti _ , waiting inside its case, waiting to be plundered. The stuff is white, waxy and thick, they say it’s the actual seed of the whale. So why is it in the head then? Blanky still wonders, but sailors believe in wilder things that possess some sense. The liquid can be made into candles; it burns bright and clean; it can be made to sit in ladies’ parlors and to illuminate fine society. (Costumed balls populated by swirling animals and toffs, their dances lit by burning semen stolen from a monster of the deep. Bloody hell, he thinks.) A nimble and wiry lad goes in the hollowed out cavity with bucket in hand, and out springs from the beast’s ruined crown like a gore-drenched Athena is the ship’s boy, Thomas Blanky, slimy and slippery and at the cusp of manhood. Clenched in his hand is a bucket full of spermaceti. He will not make the mistake of dirtying all his clothes, he will not be swindled by the purser, he will go down to the forecastle at the end of his shift and wear the accumulated filth as a blanket and he will be proud of his work. He sees the captain’s silhouette on the quarterdeck, his face obscure; they look at each other across the slim shadows dancing on the scarlet deck and the captain nods, Blanky returns it, and the captain remains where he is—a flickering sentinel made of rubies and onyx between billowing streams of sooty smoke, a ghastly apparition an ancient mariner’s dream. 

The old hands are enjoying themselves. They whistle and sing as they work their blades, knowing their hands will fill the hold with the precious barrels that will bring them all home. For them, the smell is finer than any perfume. The greenhorns wretch, then dry heave when they have nothing left, and suffer the jeers and guffaws from the experienced. The first mate screams at a leeward cluster of shirkers and malingerers. But Blanky feels he belongs to neither group. The first inklings of a lifelong sensation are spreading through him, intertwining with his nerves. The boy looks up to the captain, hazy and indistinct in the torrid air, and says to himself:  _ that is me, who I will be _ . 

He followed Parry’s expeditions with interest, him and his colleagues, and they followed these voyages of exploration from Greenland all the way to Baffin Bay. Weather, water, geography, faces, time—all that changed, everything except for their work and the whales. Sometimes, he’d go down to the hold where it was cold, dark and damp, freezing slush swirling around his ankles, and he’d risk losing his toes to the cold. He wasn't here to beat the bishop in a secluded corner as one might expect, he wanted to listen to  _ them _ . Under the water line, rows of casks towering over him, with his ear pressed against the cool hull, he could hear a distant group of whales. He had expected them to sound sad, making a sort of low, sonorous moaning, but the whales do anything but that. He hears a submerged orchestra clicking and clacking at a distance that is both disturbingly near and incredibly far. What are they saying? young Blanky wonders, all alone in the darkness underneath the waves. Perhaps they are warning each other, urging themselves to swim as fast as they can, to dive to the bottom of the ocean and never come up, but whatever they say, it’s no use. They follow the shoals across the North Atlantic, braving the ice and following in the Discovery Service’s wake. The hunt never ends, nor does this unnatural feeling. If anything, it grows stronger, sinking its roots down deeper with each kill. Blood sacrifices to the Empire; the rotting cadavers and their squawking attendants marking the progress of Civilization.  _ This is God's work _ , a captain and devout Quaker who had come out of Nantucket or New Bedford or one of those Yankee places had told him,  _ and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, that's what the good book says, and that's what we do, how we live: by exercising our domination gifted by His divine Providence.  _

If he had been older, if he had possessed the balls, if he hadn't been so terrified of the whip, he would've asked the holy-roller how the  _ Essex  _ and her fate fit into all this. What does a man of faith even call a whale ramming a ship—blasphemy? Funny how pious folks are so quick to praise God for perceived miracles while blaming humanity and its inextricable sin whenever something remotely bad happens. And yet, nevertheless, Ross insisted on observing divine service out here in this inhospitable land, as truncated and improvised as may be, moreso even when they were forced to abandon  _ Victory  _ and begin what seemed to be a death march. At least, they’d gotten a taste of it, especially towards the end when they were reduced to crawling on all fours while dragging the boats like a pack of fucking mongrels and John Ross, perched on top one of the boats in a fancy fur-trimmed coat, their callous owner, watching with disinterest. The only time he came alive during that march was when Blanky, at the head of his mates, begged him to abandon the boats whose cruel weight was draining all their lives, the vital essence leaving their bodies in the form of sweat that froze all over their flesh—a thin, crackling layer of ice that got trapped beneath all their cumbersome layers of clothes.  _ Mutiny _ , that’s what Ross cried,  _ and you are all a damned lot of mutineers _ . It had taken Blanky every effort to calm Ross down, to stop him from taking a course of action he might regret, and afterwards he was left more exhausted than he ever was dragging the fucking boats in the first place. But, somehow, they all made it to Fury Beach, and the stores that Parry had left behind there. Now that, in Blanky’s opinion, was what you called Providence. 

And though he is not starving, tinned meat and bread made from old flour are not enough to dispel the acrid odor on his breath, the sepulchral scent. If they are not rescued soon, all the preserved foods in the world won’t be enough to save them from scurvy. Their are kegs of lime juice, sure, and the surgeon has them drinking it, but Blanky once overheard the surgeon—who thought he was safe in the officer’s part of their shelter—complaining about how the juice always lost its potency after considerable time spent on the ice. The bitterness wells up again, and he finds he can no longer abide standing next to a hastily dug grave destined to be forgotten. He turns around and heads for Somerset House—a composite construction of canvas and wood recovered from the  _ Fury  _ wreck, all of it covered in densely packed snow; and where the expedition members are currently residing. The malaise infesting his soul is branching out, filling him top to bottom, and he knows that nothing good will come from going in that shelter, but perhaps he is willing to see another disaster. There is no more effective spell to breaking monotony than misery. He passes through the threshold and into the seaman’s area. A dying lamp sits alone on a large table made of driftwood; groans and coughs emanate from the cubicles in the corners on his right hand side where the supposedly able bodied seamen are stacked together like matchwood. This is where he messes...and where the rescue party will find a hell of a mess if they don't get here soon. 

That is, if the Admiralty haven't dismissed them as dead. The papers are probably already declaring them to be 'Arctic Martyrs' or other such nonsense. If that's the case, Blanky is sorely disappointed. He had always wanted the privilege of writing his own obituary. But a sailor seldom has the opportunity to decide his fate. 

Thomas Blanky is no stranger to the Arctic. In '27 he climbed the northern latitudes with Captain William Parry and eight reindeer in a courageous attempt to reach the North Pole. Never before had he laid eyes on a reindeer, and it was the first time in his life he ever ate one. Looking back on it, they really should've brought more of those animals. Fresh meat would’ve been more than welcome during the long days they spent travelling over the pack ice; an agonizing and, ultimately, futile trip. They travelled by night, since it was always light out that far up north during the summer, and Parry hoped that the ice floes would be more solid and the reflected glare reduced. It made no difference. Parry didn’t realize ‘til later that the ice was actually moving under them, an unseen current pushing the ice south while they struggled in the opposite direction. According to Parry who took stopped to take measurements sometime in July, even though they walked a mile northward, their evening and noon positions were practically identical. Upon learning this, Blanky had keeled over in laughter, the raucous noise discordant within layers of rain, snow and fog; he laughed until tears leaked out his eyes and froze on his cheeks, only stopping when Parry put down his sextant and looked curiously at him with utter perplexity. The ice, for all the danger it posed to him, evidently shared his sense of humor. He would do well to master it, Thomas Blanky, able bodied seaman, realized. It was in this unlikely moment that he became fully sold on the idea of exploration. Besides that, other notable highlights included dining on walrus and bear and making the acquaintance of a certain Lieutenant Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier—an unassuming young man worried about his poor spelling and County Down accent, modest and shy, fair-complexioned, his rosy cheeks got all ruddy whenever he laughed at one of Blanky’s dirty jokes. But there was no mistaking the budding melancholy behind his bright eyes, the kind that follows a man all his life. They got along quickly and easily, and formed a friendship based on the tacit understanding of the hidden colors their hearts harbored. Through some miracle (in the loosest sense of the word), they set the record for Farthest North—82°45′N. _Sir_ William Parry was on par with Nelson that year, despite the wreck of _Fury_ in ‘25 and his subsequent failure to find the pole. The Admiralty overlooks failures when you’re a hero.

What they don’t accept are empty hands, as John Ross had found out the hard way. 

To his left, a thin partition of wood serves as the barrier guarding officer’s country. This is where Captain John Ross along with his nephew, Lieutenant James Clark Ross, and the surgeon are quartered. It was also home to someone who is no longer present. It occurs to Blanky that there is something, however unpleasant it may be, that needs doing. 

He peels off his mittens and gloves with his teeth, takes off his cold-weather slops and other cumbersome layers of clothes with numb hands, then solemnly lays all the articles across the table to dry. He keeps the peacoat and flannel-lined trousers on. No point in leaving yourself exposed; not voluntarily, anyway. 

He brushes aside the ragged curtain and takes tentative steps into more daunting territory. A childhood memory—creeping into his parent's bedroom after a particularly frightening nightmare; though he still finds it hard to believe he ever had time to spare for such a luxurious thing as childhood. Like old age, he figures those early years are a more vestigial part of a man's life. We come crawling; we go out crawling. Nothing has ever convinced him otherwise. It is only those few, but decisive actions made on life's peak that make any difference in a man's life.  _ Better to go out in your prime, on your own terms, than be reduced to a senile hulk _ —that has always been his belief, and these dire straits are turning him into a fanatic. 

There is no light at all; the halfhearted flame from the seamen's table is smothered by the cloth falling behind Blanky. It’s quiet. All the officers are soundly sleeping under their wolf blankets, with bellies full of freshly caught salmon and the sure knowledge that their stewards will bring them more in the morning. Technically, he shouldn't be here. He can justify himself as much as he wants, but without a proper invitation or any worthwhile news to report, he has no good reason for being here. But it's not the officers he's worried about, rather, it's the cubicle at the far end of the room. He'll pop in the empty room—no bigger than a cell, really—for a bit, then be on his way. 

He creeps around the officer’s table without making the slightest peep. Over the long winter, his eyes have long since adjusted to the perpetual dark, and he’s quite used to running blind. He sees the outlines of doorways, no candlelight creeping out from under. This absence emboldens him. His destination is the one next to the surgeon’s room. He hesitates at the doorstep, holds his breath, and listens. There is nothing but the ice: a faint murmuring muffled by layers of packed snow, canvas and wood. 

Somehow, he finds the ice to be far more threatening in its subtlety. The ice is always grinding, always squeezing, and he still hears the timbers of  _ Victory  _ snapping in the rare moments he drifts off to sleep. If it’s not freezing your limbs off and crushing your ship, spilling you out into the desolate wastes and hostile elements, then it’s doing something worse behind your back. He knows the ice, or at least, he is certain of how much of a bastard it is. The academic classes he attended under Parry, and the more half-hearted ones observed under Ross, imparted to him the technical and navigational knowledge enabling him to state that plain fact in finer, more palatable words. And he’d be an idiot to not take advantage of his skills. There would be more expeditions in the future, and they’d need experienced pilots to take them through the pack ice, and who’d be better than Thomas Blanky? Didn’t he possess the experience? The know-how? Such a splendid combination.  _ Ice Master _ —the title suits him well. Sure, masters weren’t considered commissioned officers in the Royal Navy, but James Cook started out as one, didn’t he? Blanky could do with that kind of career...with the exception of getting slaughtered by the natives, of course. And if not a commission, he’d be happy enough with a command in the merchant service. Considering his disdain for elaborate ceremonies and corporal punishment, a civilian position might actually be preferable. 

But first, he must survive. 

He slowly slides the door open, just enough to squeeze his body through, and slips in, quickly closing the door behind him. Still quiet, for the most part; he fancies hearing the surgeon snoring. All the better; that will cover up the inevitable noise. In one corner is a cot—a waste of space and an overabundance of weight; Blanky prefers the more practical hammocks—and on the opposite side, lined against the wall, is a sea chest and another, slightly larger chest. He sighs. The room is exactly as Chimham Thomas left it: tidy and utilitarian. He sighs again and begins rummaging through the sea chest. There must be something in here he can give to Thomas's family; some keepsake, like a piece of scrimshaw or an intimate heirloom he’d held close to his breast in life, such as a ticking pocket watch or a pretty locket with an engraved cameo inside its firm clasp—the delicate contours of a loved one’s face immortalized in pearl. But he finds no such thing. Chimham Thomas’s legacy is nothing but a few threadbare shirts, frayed sweaters and lambskin waistcoats. No handcrafts or sketches or private notes, nothing to set Chimham Thomas apart from anyone else. Thomas, who’d made and dispensed with so many useful creations painstakingly made by the ingenuity of his own hands, left nothing behind for himself. 

The irony is not lost on Blanky. 

He recalls how in Felix Harbour, where they spent their first winter in the Arctic, they encountered a hunting party of Esquimaux consisting of men, women, and one pitiful looking fellow being carried on a sledge. Through butchered attempts at their native language and hand gestures, they were made to understand that the prone man— Tulluachiu, if Blanky’s not mistaken —lost a fight with a polar bear and, consequently, lost a leg. Blanky had taken a deep breath when he heard that: ‘tis bad enough to lose a leg, he thought, fucking awful losing one out on the ice.  Tulluachiu put on a good face though, and the two women attending him (wives? daughters?) didn’t seem to mind looking after their crippled charge. Looking down at Tulluachiu, Blanky could only hope he’d be able to suffer such a physical disaster with the same courage. Ross was far less impressed and more practical, wasting no time trading metal barrel-hoops in exchange for fresh meat and furs. Ross had never thought highly of the Esquimaux, to put it lightly and politely, but the pragmatic part of the captain recognized the advantages of a native-inspired diet of raw fish and blubber; the stuff tasted as good as it looked, but it did wonders warding off the worst of the scurvy. For all his faults, even a bastard like Ross understood that an expression of thanks was necessary, so he had Chimham Thomas provide Tulluachiu with a wooden leg. Thomas bent down and pulled aside the furs, inspected what was left of the leg with help from the surgeon, and returned to the expedition’s ice-locked ship. When he emerged from  _ Victory _ , he was carrying a custom-fashioned wooden leg complete with a metal cup —to provide a comfortable fit for where the left leg had been amputated below the knee—and copper nails. To top the whole deal off, the carpenter also provided replacement parts and, acting alone and of his own volition, he also made wooden foot to complete the package. No one had expected him to do such a good job, and nobody would have commented on a slipshod piece of work, but Thomas’s creation was a real work of art. It was this simple act of kindness, and not all their impressive displays of engineering and technology, that impressed  Tulluachiu and his band the most. Thanks to the carpenter, a grateful Tulluachiu was able to go seal hunting, and, for all intents and purposes, his life had been saved. Not by food or equipment or relief from the ice and cold, but through compassion. Although there was no way of knowing it at the time, this show of charity would be Chimham Thomas’s ultimate masterwork.

Thomas Blanky knows better than most that life isn't fair, nor does he think it should it be, but he cannot ignore the injustice of Thomas's fate. What did the carpenter leave behind for his family besides loss, heartbreak, and a yawning lack of closure? Certainly not a pension from the Admiralty; this disaster is unique in not being suffered under their auspices. Ross proposed his plan of taking a steam-powered vessel with a shallow draft and John Barrow, Second Secretary to the Admiralty and instigator of countless polar struggles, promptly told him to bugger off. (Although Blanky suspects those exact words weren’t used.) It all came down to Ross’s discretion, and he sure as hell never showed any charity to his men, much less unseen persons having nothing to do with his quest to conquer the Northwest Passage. 

But what Blanky knows—and many more have surely reached the same conclusion—is that there is a heavier weight on his captain’s heart. 

There’s nothing left but the shamble back to his semi-frozen sleeping bag and wait; he’s always waiting during these dark days, and that’s the most excruciating thing he’s been forced to do during the expedition. A man’s thoughts are more vivid in isolation, and Blanky’s terrify him. 

He nearly misses it on the way out: a single boat axe propped against the wall, waiting for him. He blinks, not quite believing it to be real. It’s still there: expectant and stolid. He makes out the curved edge, severe against the soft shadows, and feels his dull resentment turn into something else entirely. He picks it up and balances its weight in his hands—lighter than anything he hauled here, but heavy with potential. His first impulse is to laugh; an axe is about as fucking useful on the ice as one of Parry’s reindeer. You use an axe to hack away at tumorous cordage too swollen by seawater to be of any use, to shorten spars and cut free useless sails. Often was the occasion when Blanky climbed up the ratlines of a wave-battered vessel in the middle of a raging storm and used an axe to severe damaged sections of rigging made dangerous by the tempestuous winds. There is no vessel anymore, just men, so sensitive and fragile. He runs a thumb along the edge, careful lest he cut himself—wounds don’t heal when you show signs of scurvy, they only fester—and he finds it still sharp. His mind races.  _ This tool _ , he thinks, _ will do a fine job splitting apart year old biscuits hard as stone _ , then, impulsively, he imagines what it will do to bone. The force of this thought startles him, frightens him even, so does the vividness of Captain John Ross’s face splitting under cold steel in his mind’s eye. But there is no denying the morbid allure, the thrill of catastrophe. Fear gives way to shameful desire, and then there’s no shame whatsoever. He’s tumbling, falling, the firmness of the axe’s handle in his hands acting as a catalyst to the reaction that's been eating him up since the funeral, or, perhaps, has been his entire life—consuming him, enraging his blood and shooting flames out his eyes.

He cradles the axe in a white-knuckled grip.

All he’s ever had were the clothes on his back and whatever he could fit in a small chest. His entire life—all his ambitions and desires, wants and needs—has been tied to the sea and ice; success measured by his ability to master it. He has no connections in Trinity House or the Navy Board, no chance for easy promotion. Everything rests on his competence and the favorable impressions made upon his superior officers, because it’s their word that will decide whether he climbs up the latter. Going down is not an option; not if he wants a wife, his own place, and a comfortable retirement spent behind closed doors instead of spending his twilight years begging on the street—another used up jack tar with nothing but old yarns to show for it. His advancement depends on the success of this expedition...and John Ross’s patronage, but after that whole incident with the boats, it’s highly unlikely the bloody bastard will have anything good to say about him. If anything, the spiteful Ross might actively harm his career, and he may never ship out again. Nothing unusual about that; there were actually many officers, usually aging midshipmen and lieutenants (like poor Mr. Crozier) as bereft of patrons as Blanky, that retired and sought other career paths on land, or else subsisted on half-pay. But Blanky doesn’t have the means to live onshore, and is not high enough on the pecking order to receive half-pay. His livelihood is wholly dependent on a seafaring career. And Ross, that goddamn cunt, might ruin what took years of bloodshed and toil to achieve by falsely accusing him of the maritime sin of mutiny. He’s shivering, but not from the cold. Incandescent rage spills over, numbing him to all else but his manifold woes. 

There's only one thing left to be done. 

It isn't devised in any way; it's simply the organic outcome of a long progression of events that he doesn't pretend to understand. He cracks the door open, peeks into the officer’s area, waits with the perfect stillness of an Esquimaux seal hunter, and slips through the slight partition—he finds this to be no small feat with all the layers he wears, but beneath the cloth his body is lean and bony like a starved dog’s—and slides the door shut behind him. It’s quieter; the axe weighs heavier; the enormity of the situation stifling him in a room turned claustrophobic and deadly. One false step, one chance meeting, and it’s all over. He’s never done such a thing before, always regarded it as a special kind of loathsome, but he’s heard the stories. A heavy object, like a hammer or a saw, falls from the rigging and ‘accidentally’ hits an unpopular officer square on the head. A plum job. Or, perhaps, a particularly detestable bos’n with nasty habits goes over the side in the middle of the night, right when the watch is being changed, and of course no one ever saw it happen in the dark, never heard the bastard plop into the heedless waves. A burial at sea without the pomp. But Blanky knows secondhand scuttlebutt and the dread certainty of the real thing are two completely different matters. There’s no way this can be passed off as an accident, not when John Ross is the least popular man above the Arctic Circle, but that has its advantages. Who's to say who gave Old Ross the blow when the morning watch finds him with his skull split? Every one of them would have a motive, including his handsome nephew... 

Blanky was with James Clark Ross, a veteran explorer and an old friend from the Parry days, when he discovered the north magnetic pole after man-hauling across miles of tortuous terrain. It was a career-defining occasion, and Ross the Younger was beside himself when he returned to his uncle and delivered the joyous news. But Ross the Elder, high-handed and sanctimonious, informed his nephew while he was still shaking and catching his breath that it was not  _ his  _ expedition, but that of his captain’s and uncle’s, and any discovery would be a shared credit. Blanky never forgot the hatred smoldering between James Clark Ross’s frosted eyelashes, inside his bloodshot eyes. No loss is felt more sharply than stolen credit. What should’ve been a happy reunion was besmirched, and not because of disaster, but by petty spite. Nothing more was said, but Blanky still privately believes that upon hearing the news of the discovery, an envious John Ross knew his nephew would go on to accomplish more than his uncle ever had. 

That is, if James Clark Ross lives long enough to seize the opportunity. 

And Blanky sincerely doubts Ross the Elder will be around to see his nephew’s possible success.

He stops just outside the old man’s door; the only thing separating them a thin plank of fashioned driftwood and a last minutes’ worth of hesitation. The axe, that had once fit so snugly in his hands as if it were tailor made for him, has become heavy and unwieldy. Holding it here, in this exact time and place, feels more absurd than anything. _Can I do this?_ he asks himself, _can I lift this trifle weight and take a man’s life away?_ He’s perpetrated violence before, against both animals and men, but unpleasant maritime butchery carried out in expectation of a worthwhile lay and liquor-fueled pub brawls over toothless doxies doesn't quite compare. He can’t free himself from his doubts, that at the last moment his aim will swerve and he’d only wound Ross, and the old bastard would scream his head off and all hands would rush in, shoving themselves into the crowded room, tripping each other over in their efforts to detain Blanky before he could do any more damage. He’d be chained up like an animal if that happened...that is, if they didn’t go ahead and execute him after a quick trial, as hurriedly improvised as Chimham Thomas’s funeral, and with a similar conclusion...However, he still had the sense to know that a similar thing would happen if he was found prowling at the captain’s door with an axe in his hand, so in this case, there was no better alternative than to act immediately. A stray memory of a half-forgotten divine service given by Ross flitters past: _That thou doest, do quickly._ An inkling of shame trickles down his ribs, going over and under, until he’s left with a lingering air of trepidation trapped within the hollow of his emaciated chest. But he’s already picked up the axe, he reminds himself, he’s gone through the trouble of sneaking to this specific spot, into this exact moment—there’s no going back now. Anyway, how hard can it be? Ross’s skull, contrary to popular belief, cannot be any thicker than a whale skull. 

Cracking a skull, he'd once overheard in a quayside house of ill-repute, is no more a chore than cracking open a walnut. He remembered a Heathen harpooner he’d known in the East Indies— _ The Lictor _ they called him for reasons now forgotten—a quiet man with skin so black it was nearly purple, covered in running strings of tattoos that accentuated the contours of his sculpted body like a fine filigree. His favorite pastime was breaking open coconuts with his bare hands and he'd laugh—a braying, raucous noise—whenever his mates vainly tried to do the same. Blanky had duly tried...and failed. But he isn't a boy anymore, and this time he has an axe.

He presses his ear against the fragile barrier, and hears a steady, throaty snoring. With one hand, he hides the axe behind his back, and with the other, he gingerly moves the door just enough to let him through. His back to the entrance, he carefully reaches back and closes the door as his eyes adjust to the dark.

There he is: wrapped up in wolf blankets on top of a firm cot, and sleeping as soundly as a babe in its crib. Open-mouthed, he takes a deep breath, tasting the cool staleness of the captain’s quarters. There’s nothing else for it now, but nevertheless, he hesitates, taking in his surroundings: a sea chest resting in the corner, coats and boat cloaks hanging from hooks on the far wall, looking eerily like men hanging from the yardarm on a dismal sea, and, suspended from the ceiling, unmoving in the still air, an unlit lamp—an incongruous construction of gilded brass that belongs in a wood-panelled wardroom filled with polite laughter and the pleasant clink of silverware on porcelain, not this dreary corner where the only sounds escape from the parched lips of two damned men. Another piece of dead weight; Blanky grips the axe and takes a few steps, carefully picking his way through the clutter in the room. It’s fitting; cold-blooded murder insulated by walls of ice, but he can’t shake off the feeling he’s desecrating something sacred. A man often appears younger sleeping, and Ross is no exception. Beneath the wild bristles and wrinkles etched around mouth and eyes, there’s still the shadow of a young man, but there’s no innocence, no one stays innocent for long in the service. He wants to see more; it doesn’t seem proper killing a man face-to-face without fixing him square with your eyes, so he fumbles around in his peacoat pocket, withdraws a flint, and strikes it within the frigid metal confines of the lamp. Soft light illuminates the room, and Captain John Ross’s open eyes, accusing and glistening. 

“What in hell’s bloody blazes are you doing here, Mr. Blanky?”

The gentle effusion of warm luminescence succeeds in soothing everything in it's glow; the furs enveloping Ross appear all the more softer, and even the harsh, flesh-numbing surfaces of the navigational apparatuses lined up along a low shelf built into the wall—sexton, chronometer, compasses and telescopes—adopts a faded ormolu finish in this intimately confined radiance. Simple lamplight transforms this holdout of humanity at the edge of the world into a cozy place where every part of it is transmuted into welcoming and unobtrusive forms—all except for John Ross’s haggard visage. Like nails growing on a corpse, (that is, if what the resurrectionists say are true), Ross’s rust-colored mane has kept growing and growing, and has only gotten worse since the captain’s steward became infirm with scurvy earlier this winter. Once auburn, the great majority of his whiskers, sideburns, beard, and all the bristles running amok in between, has turned a gunmetal grey flecked with copper. The captain looks decades older, and Blanky can hardly remember how his superior looked at the onset of this expedition, or himself, for that matter, and Blanky doesn't want to know. 

“You better have a damned good reason for barging in like this,” growled Ross as he propped himself up on his elbows, squinting. “Good God, man, haven’t you ever learned to knock?”

Blanky feels like his tongue belongs to someone else, and his mouth has gone completely dry. He knits his brows, stammers, “I...there is an urgent matter I wish to discuss...if you please, sir.”

Ross emits a derisive snort and shakes his hoary head. “I do believe, Mr. Blanky, that you’re obliged to bring up anything of importance to the officer of the watch—”

“Sir…”

“Which is definitely not me. I am sleeping, Mr. Blanky, an activity I haven’t been able to observe often enough, lately. So,  _ if you please _ , I’ll be turning in now and you’ll be glad if I don’t bring this incident up tomorrow”—his chapped lips stretch into a rueful grin at the old joke; what does tomorrow mean in a land where the sun never rises?—”you may extinguish the light on your way out.”

“But, sir,” Blanky insists, stalling the inevitable. 

“Good night, Mr. Blanky.”

“But, sir,” Blanky says, more resolute, “I have something to show you…”

Running his finger along his resentment, dull as an old knife, bracing himself. He takes a deep breath, exhales, and reveals the boat axe: its edge gleams in muted space. Ross’s eyes hover over the instrument of his demise, flicker over to the doorway blocked by Blanky, then up to the man himself. His inferior also carries a broad smile full of dirty teeth. Blanky’s enduring affliction is out of the gutter now, seeping into his face, making it twitch into fantastic contortions. Pulsing shadows pool in the hollows of his worn mask. Woodenly, lips working out of tandem with his words, he says:

“Apologies for disturbing you, sir. Didn’t mean to wake you up.” And, in a voice just above a whisper, “Close your eyes, if you prefer.”

Any man, any  _ sane _ man, would’ve screamed for help in that instant, but not Captain John Ross RN, oh no, officers in His Britannic Majesty’s Royal Navy didn’t cry out in the face of danger, especially not when the said danger is a malnourished seaman ravaged by scurvy and desperation. 

John Ross bristles in righteous indignation. 

“What’s this bloody nonsense, man? Put that axe away before you cut yourself.” He sits up. “I’m warning you.”

“Or else what? This is the frozen arsehole of the world, sir, and we’re perched right on the rim”—Blanky brandishes the axe for emphasis—”and there’s only one place left for us to go.”

“Good God, you belong in the Bedlam. Except I wouldn’t spare two pence for you.” Ross sits up and scowls. “Put that down, right now.”

Blanky does not.

Ross lets out a frustrated sigh. “This is about those damned boats, isn’t it? If that’s so, you have my sincere assurance, Mr. Blanky,”—he smiles, revealing his black gums—”that you will suffer no shortage of consequences after I bring  _ my _ expedition home.”

The very mention of the back-breaking man-hauling, and the presumptuous  _ my _ , ignites a hidden fuse within Blanky, causing him to clutch his axe and bound across the insignificant distance between them; he falls upon his captain, silencing his protests with an open hand. Blanky feels Ross’s warm breath panting against his palm, like a dog, he thinks, and he jams both his knees into Ross’s stomach to keep him from struggling. Still, Ross flails around, searching for something to hit Blanky upside the head with, but the heavy wolf blankets impede his movements, weighing his already fragile arms down and wearing him out…

John Ross stares upwards at Blanky; although subdued, he is far from defeated. There is a steely defiance in the captain’s eyes that Blanky cannot help but admire. Perhaps that’s why he speaks to him in a husky voice instead of ending this confrontation for good. 

“Your expedition? Is that so?” Blanky draws out the words, his eyes never leaving Ross’s, answering his challenge. “Is that why you went up here in a little paddle-steamer instead of a bomb ship? And with only your nephew for company? Oh no. If you’ll forgive my presumptuousness, I must beg to differ.”

Ross lifts his head, mouth opening and teeth scrabbling against Blanky’s flesh, trying to bite him, and Blanky unceremoniously strikes Ross against his temple with the axe’s wooden handle. Ross flops back down like a stunned seal. A dark bruise is already crowning his forehead. Blanky smiles down at him and says:

“You really should’ve brought along a few lobsterbacks. But this jaunt of yours wasn’t approved of by the Admiralty, wasn’t it? You decided to surround yourself with the blessings of a fucking gin maker—named a bloody peninsula after him, you did, that and a peninsula.”

Ross glares at him, his eyes clear as diluted spirits. Blanky cannot define his contempt, his utter hatred for this man. He'd thought he was doing this for Chimham Thomas, but that's a lie. He's doing this out of selfishness, he's doing this for himself. And this realization sets him free. The axe is heavy, weighed down by the same sinking feeling in his chest. It’s not good enough to kill Ross and have the bastard go to hell, sure in the knowledge that he’d done nothing wrong. Far from it. The outrage burning in the captains eyes must be extinguished; he must be chastised for his unseemly behavior; Thomas Blanky must exercise his domination over this vindictive wretch.

“You turned back,” he says, slowly, “in ‘18, on the  _ Isabella _ , you turned back. Parry would whine all about it whenever he had too much to drink, said he protested your decision.” Blanky leans over Ross’s face, his fetid breath washing over him. “You came home a disgrace...and never got an appointment again. Still haven’t, because this is all financed by Booth.” Blanky shook his head in a mocking display of pity. “But you want that to change. At least, you want your reputation too. Want to be like Parry, eh? I’ve heard their going to give him a knighthood.” 

Ross squirms against Blanky’s staying hand, making muffled noises. 

“They should’ve done you in like Byng, but they had other plans, and so do I.” Blanky forces his knees deeper into Ross’s gut, pushing the air out of him while he slowly, deliberately, unbuttons his trousers. “You can scream, if you’ve still got breath, but I’m not sure you’ll want anyone to see the position I’m going to put you in, least of all your darling nephew. No, unless you want a scandal that you’ll never come back from, you’ve got no choice but to take it. I’m going to make you humble, sir.” Blanky holds Ross’s eyes in his own. “It ain't your crown I'm splittin'.” 

Blanky tosses the axe away. It thuds on the floor, but he’s gone beyond all caring now, they can all join in for all he cares. Instead of a bashing, he decides, he'll give him a stabbing. 

Hanging from his neck on a chain is his trusty boat knife, worn more as a charm than as a tool, but now it’ll serve a more practical purpose. With one slash he opens the captain up from chin to the bottom of his stomach, cutting away all the layers and exposing his naked flesh. His bare skin looks very pale and soft, appearing phosphorescent in the halflight. It is criss-crossed with fine scars—lazy crescents and horizontal slashes, remnants of old sutures and tell-tale burns from lit powder. He tears away what's left of Ross’s nightgown and hungrily surveys his body. Blanky runs the tip of his calloused index finger over a wicked cut rising and falling down the crest of Ross’s pelvis. Scurvy reopens wounds, he thinks, and wonders how many nicks he has on his own hands. 

Blanky is also wondering what he looks like in this moment, what Ross sees hanging over him and the burdensome cot he’d insisted his underlings carry across this treacherous wasteland along with so much other dead weight at their vitality's expense, and Blanky imagines himself as a fugitive from the innermost circles of Hell because, Oh Lord, he is going to sin this night... 

He's going to show this son of a reverend what it's like getting fucked up the arse. 

He runs the tip of his tongue along his teeth, tasting blood. “If I let my hand go, will you scream?”

Ross briskly shakes his head, and speaks, deep and husky, as soon as Blanky’s hand is released. He inclines his chin, drawing attention down to his old wounds. “I got these killing bigger shits than you.”

Blanky nods. “Aye, sir...but those were only Frenchies.”

“I won’t scream,” Ross says adamantly, “you can’t do anything to me.”

“Are you sure?” Blanky yanks his trousers down and the cold takes his breath away, and, perversely enough, the crisp coolness in the air actually excites his prick. “Papists say pride is a sin, sir, And you know what? I think their right. You’ve confused your hardness with strength, that’s your mistake, and in doing so you’ve turned your men against you. You don’t do that by being hard, you do that by acting like an unrepentant bastard. You’ve never been able to see the difference between discipline and base meanness...” Blanky backs off of Ross’s body and grips his bony hips. “And now, sir, without further ado, I’m going to show you what hard is all about.”

Ross doesn’t flinch, or resist in the least. Blanky reckons he comes from that queer old school where taking your lashes without making so much as a whimper is a sign of manliness. Well, that’s certainly fine by Blanky; it’ll make things easier for both of them. 

“I never had you pegged as a backgammon player,” Ross hisses through clamped teeth.

Blanky’s attempted grin emerges as a crooked grimace. “I like playing games, sir,” he says,  _ sotto voce _ , “I’m still a boy at heart.” 

Blanky lifts Ross’s hips and takes him like a woman before he can reply. Ross gasps and makes a hollow, mewling noise in the back of his throat, but refuses to plead or cry. With sudden strength emanating from an infernal source, Blanky huffs and bucks against him, grimy nails digging painfully into Ross’s taut skin, making more intimate additions to the old captain’s collection of scars. He derives no pleasure from this sordid exercise: that's not what it's about. This old decrepit thing he's impaled provides nothing but revulsion and hate; every joyless push is meant to further humiliate the old seadog who fancies himself a leader of men. Ross's eyes, once sunken into his skull, are now bulging out, big and white, and Blanky can no longer bear looking at them. He stares straight ahead, deeply unnerved by Ross's stubborn refusal to make so much as a peep. 

"And you won't say anything afterwards," Blanky rasps, pointedly staring straight ahead, "or else you'll be called something worse than 'the man who ate his boots...you can’t punish me, or else everyone under this roof will know their captain got used like a catamite by one of their own...you won’t speak of this, you will never speak of this...''

Ross grunts and gasps and hisses and chokes and makes a whole medley of indescribable, low noises, but whether in reply or made involuntarily out of pain, Blanky cannot tell. Maybe a bit of both. Mostly, he’s silent, and that works for Blanky. His thrusts are monotonous and mechanical, bringing to mind the extinguished steam engine trapped in the submerged bowels of the long drowned  _ Victory _ . He can see the ship in the darkness over Ross's tossing and turning head, resting on an alien seabed where no diver can hope to reach, under layers of ice that block the moonlight, bathing the wreck in the blackest pitch… Ross can't see it from his loose pillow, where he's locked in a mute struggle that has no apparent end. His clenched face sways to and fro over the backdrop of his stained bedding like that of a sick man's lost in delirium—a fever whose grip will never break. 

But what goes up must come down.

When he comes, Thomas Blanky hears the dying echoes of distant thunder, and is unsure whether it’s the blood thrumming in his ears or the sound of the ice that crushed  _ Fury  _ years ago. In the ensuing emptiness emerges something even more profound; he cocks his head and listens to the whales carry on as never before: their massive tails brush against the outer walls, making the planking moan and creak, and he imagines waves of flukes fanning the darkness, riding on an unseen current; then he hears them crying out to each other as he had always thought they should when he was younger, but all his wild speculations cannot match the ethereal notes he hears now, rising and falling in a damp void, music that can only come from the leviathans' lungs. He's just barely aware of Ross swearing and protesting beneath him, at his knees, words squeezing past his constricted throat in a whistling stream, hoursely yammering about how he’s the one that saved Blanky’s life and those of all his mates, that he’s going to bring them all home, that absolutely no one else in the whole wide fucking world can do what he’s doing now and bear the same responsibilty he carries on his shoulders like a forgotten Atlas, and that Thomas Blanky is is the most ungrateful bastard he’s ever had the displeasure to deal with and will surely be hanged, drawn and quartered for eternity in the deepest pit of hell. Flames will sear his flayed and writhing form, raw and suspended as it is in the blistering heat, but Blanky is heedless of his captain’s threats, knowing that any such place is bound to be wet and cold and frozen through. 

He wordlessly yanks up his trousers and makes leave of the narrow cot and its narrower occupant. Ross swears at Blanky’s receding back, spitting at his heels, outraged that Blanky would simply leave him after such an affront to his person; the captain wants to lock horns again, now that he’s ready, but Blanky ignores him; he’s only interested in the world without—always has and will be. He blows out the light, and he’s alone with the whales at the bottom of a sunless sea, surrounded by their music. It’s like he’s, for the very first time, well and truly with them. He can barely hear Ross now, insistent as he is. 

Thomas Blanky, boy and man, are very, very far away. 

**Author's Note:**

> Chimham Thomas died the spring before the men of the expedition were rescued in 1833...I believe? At least, I’m pretty sure. I have down as winter since I decided early on to be purposely vague about dates and to take full advantage of a gloomy Arctic winter for dramatic effect. The ending was also going to be more abrupt, with Ross protesting and Blanky immediately fading out, but I ended up making it more drawn out than planned. And now I’m unsure if the abrupt ending wouldn't have been better - sometimes less is more and all that. The opening quote (I really liked the sound of it) is taken from In the Heart of the Sea: The Tragedy of the Whaleship Essex by Nathaniel Philbrick, along with the graphic description of ‘trying-out’. I also thought about keeping this to myself because of the content, but I decided to go ahead with it anyway (hubris!).  
> Speaking of dramatic effect, Chimham Thomas having his own quarters in the officer’s part of Somerset House is pure fiction. In reality, William Thom, an officer, had his quarters where I falsely described Chimham Thomas’s as being. A Tom for a Tom. I gave the carpenter quarters in officer’s country in order to expedite the plot. I feel that I must mention this because, as we all know, this inaccurate reflection of living arrangements is easily the worst thing I’ve done in this fic. Also, the reindeer were not eaten during Parry’s last expedition. I believe they were left behind before the man-hauling.  
> Also, the animosity between Blanky and Ross is pure fabrication following the lead from the tv show. Historically speaking, Ross held an immense respect for Blanky and, after the expedition, wrote him a letter of recommendation enabling the future ice master to command his own ship in the merchant service. Despite the hard feelings, I imagine the Real Blanky must’ve been grateful for Ross’s help in procuring him a leadership position. The whole affair about leaving behind the boats really did happen, though.  
> Another little thing, Victory’s steam engine did not go down with the ship. It was ditched on shore somewhere because it wasn’t working right. And there’s also this interesting tid-bit: the ship that rescued Ross and his men was the Isabella, which he’d earlier commanded in 1818. Also, the mention of cigarette might be anachronistic? I’m not sure, I’ve heard different definitions of the word that depends on the time period.  
> Thomas Blanky was listed as a ‘First Mate’ in John Ross’s book. This is not explicitly stated in the fic because I wanted to amplify the rank difference between the two and highlight their mutual resentment. George McDiarmid was the surgeon’s name but, since he had no major part to play, I left him unnamed.  
> I never planned on doing anything like this, but after reading a bunch of gruesome Dark Crozier and Hickey/Crozier fics (I owe a tremendous debt to Skazka, who I admire), I was positively inspired and set out to do what I said I didn’t want to do any more in the past. Which sums up everything I do, really. And I have a bunch of things I want to do but am unsure as to when I’ll actually do them, like getting around to watching Chernobyl (I wish I had HBO), and a whole bunch of other creative things.  
> Links (I'm too lazy to link them properly):  
> William Parry
> 
> https://collections.dartmouth.edu/arctica-beta/html/EA15-53.html
> 
> Somerset House and John Ross
> 
> http://special.lib.gla.ac.uk/exhibns/month/sep2006.html
> 
> Thomas Blanky
> 
> http://kabloonas.blogspot.com/2015/06/thomas-blanky-live-in-hell.html
> 
> Clothing:
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pea_coat
> 
> Chimham Thomas:
> 
> http://kabloonas.blogspot.com/2015/01/the-lost-frozen-in-time.html
> 
> Book by John Ross:
> 
> https://books.google.com/books/about/Narrative_of_a_Second_Voyage_in_Search_o.html?id=AGg7AQAAIAAJ&printsec=frontcover&source=kp_read_button#v=onepage&q&f=false
> 
> Master (Naval Rank):  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Master_(naval)  
> An informative article about whaling:  
> https://www.whalingmuseum.org/learn/research-topics/overview-of-north-american-whaling/life-aboard  
> My blog for original work:  
> [My Blog](https://killicksinkstains.blogspot.com/)


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